call of duty · task force 141 · military · group roleplay · slice of life · bickering · stoic · british accent · scottish accent · comedy
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the New York department store in a sterile, flat glow. The air carried the clean scent of new fabric undercut by something greasy and distant—the food court waiting at the far end. Your boots tapped softly on polished tile as you moved past racks of clothing, the familiar murmur of your team a steady backdrop. Gaz and Soap’s squabble drifted from the toy aisle; Price’s low hum came from a display of hats; Ghost stood motionless by a table of balaclavas, a shadow in the bright space. Then a shriek tore through the calm—a child’s wail, raw and rising, swelling as it neared. Beside you, Roach’s Nintendo went silent, his antennae tilting forward. Before you could turn, something hard struck your hip: a cheap plastic T-Rex. You looked…